Testing
by Godspeed Revolution
Summary: Hanna's father leaves the cabin in the woods and his eight-year-old daughter behind... and the woods are a dangerous place.
1. Part 1: Treats

_Hanna _is the property of Focus Features.

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><p>Part 1 of 3: Treats<p>

Winter was the bad time. Cold, dark, wet. The old cabin was creaky and full of holes. At night it could be bad, if the wind was blowing from the east, away from the tree line and cutting through the chinks in the rough-hewn boards. Hanna thought sometimes the little cabin would blow away in the wind and land far away, on the icy lake, partially frozen this time of year and susceptible to breakages. Her father said this could not happen, and so far it never had.

The summers were warm and bright, green, with the birds back in their homes. Summer was the best time. They stayed up late, when the sun didn't set until after midnight, her father reading from the books, or telling her stories. Hanna liked the stories best.

It was summer now. The lake was melted, even if never warm. The quiet was gone. Footsteps were muffled in the snow, sound absorbed in the airy ice clinging to tree branches. Stalking was easy in winter, and that meant it was easy to be stalked. Hanna did not rest easy when she could be hunted.

Summer was dry branches on the ground and crackling leaves underfoot. She knew how to navigate them. Her father did too, but few others could. She was safe.

Safer. Closer to it.

One day that summer her father packed a sack full of something she didn't see. He didn't leave very often. Sometimes once a year, sometimes less. He left nineteen months ago and was gone eight days and seventeen hours. Hanna was scared then. But she was bigger now, almost nine, and she wasn't very much afraid anymore when she saw he was leaving.

She set down the ax. The blisters were coming back on her hands, softened from last year when she'd last chopped wood. During the winter the logs were too frozen to chop, so they used collected wood from the forest floor. Her father always had her chop the wood. He was stronger, but it was her job.

"I am leaving for the town," he said. He stopped halfway between the door and the woodpile, looking down the path that led away, far away to places Hanna had never been. He had put on his knit cap to cover his unruly hair. Hanna asked him about it once and he said it was so the locals didn't stare. She wondered if people would stare at her if she went to the town. Maybe if she had a hat like that, he would let her go sometime.

Hanna picked up her ax again. Her father did not like her to be idle. She gripped it firmly, left hand around the neck, closer to the top, right hand about the middle, thumbs wrapped around . Her fingers didn't reach all the way. He said she'd grow into it.

She heaved it above her shoulder, swinging it past her legs, and connected the arch to the lug of wood on the tree stump. As the ax fell she loosened her grip slightly, allowing the momentum of the head to give extra force to the blow. This made up for her limited upper body strength. The wood split cleanly.

"We are low on ammunition," she said to her father. She gave him a glance now and then, in between throwing the split wood onto an ever-growing pile and replacing it with a chunk of log. "Nine millimeter, eight gauge, and twenty-four," she said.

He kept watching the path, as if expecting something to come down it. He always expected that. Hanna did too. No one had ever come down it before, except her and her father. But they kept expecting it just the same.

It was safer that way.

"I counted. You are off a little. We still have two hundred rounds of the twenty-four."

Hanna thought about that. He corrected her often.

"Better to have too much than too little," she said eventually. She saw him nod.

"I will be gone until next week. Maybe a little later," he said.

That was normal. The town was four days journey away. Sometimes he found a ride and hitched part of the way. That allowed him to go faster, but even so, it was unlikely to take less than seven days.

It felt like too long. Hanna always worried.

"Don't talk to strangers, Papa. And don't forget to always wear your hat," she said.

He smiled a little, although she did not see it. An eight year old girl would be here defenseless in the woods, and she worried about him. But, of course, she was not defenseless.

"I want the smokehouse repaired by the time I am back," he said. "And your lessons read every night. No skipping. I'll know if you do."

Hanna believed him.

"Stay in at night. And keep the Rules."

Hanna nodded. The Rules were sacred. Don't let anyone see you. Don't leave the woods. Keep on guard. Adapt or die.

He hitched his pack further up his shoulders, eyes on his daughter. "Goodbye, Hanna," he said.

Hanna dropped the ax and ran to him. She closed her tiny arms around his waist with surprising strength. "Take me with you. I will keep you safe," she whispered.

Her father swallowed hard. Her little heart beat like a rabbit's against his stomach. "No. I have something important in the town. You will stay."

"What if you get lost?" the little girl responded, voice muffled against his coat.

"I'm much too clever to get lost. Did you ever hear of your father getting lost?"

"No," she said, but she bit her lip. Hanna did not cry much. Even as a baby she hadn't, and she didn't now.

Her father held her for a moment. Then he said, "How about this. We'll use the radio. I take one, and you use the one in the cabin. You check on me every night. I'll tell you when I'm coming home."

Her eyes lit up, she smiled, and nodded. She scampered to the cabin, emerging a moment later with an ancient looking two-way radio. He put it into his pack. "We'll check in every night at twenty-one hundred hours. Affirmative?"

"Affirmative," Hanna said, the word coming out with military precision from an eight year old's mouth.

He scooped her up and hugged her. He whispered into her ear, "Remember, don't leave the forest, no matter what happens. Promise me."

"I promise," she said.

"Good." He set her down. "And since you're such a good girl, I'll give you a treat, just this once."

Hanna tried to hide her smile. Treats were rare, and it was not a good idea to get too excited over them. But she was.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ball wrapped in brightly colored paper. He held it out to her and she stared at it for a good long second before snatching it up.

She held it up to her eyes, then sniffed it. "It's bubble gum," her father said. "I think you will like it."

With great concentration, she pulled the ends of the wrapper, slowly rotating it from its paper prison until the thing was unwrapped. The ball inside was chalky pink. "Just chew. Don't swallow."

She popped it into her mouth, and said through a sticky sugary smile, "Thank you, Papa."

He nodded and began down the path.

"Papa!" Hanna called. He stopped and turned.

"I don't know how to blow bubbles!"

"I'll teach you when I get back, Hanna." He waved and she waved back. He went down the long path to the town while Hanna tried to teach herself to blow bubbles.


	2. Part 2: Tricks

_Hanna_ is the property of Focus Features.

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><p>Part 2 of 3: Tricks<p>

In the summer, Hanna's home was very bright. The sun stayed up for hours and the night was short. Her father explained this to her by reading from the books. Latitudes above 60 degrees north remained exposed to the rays of the sun for approximately sixteen hours during the months of June, July, and August, with the length of days decreasing by six minutes daily after June 21. He had read this four times already and Hanna still did not quite understand it.

It was nearing twenty-one-hundred hours. Hanna observed the two-way radio from its perch on a shelf opposite the fireplace. It was a very ancient and special machine. Her father told her once how he had purchased it from a black marketeer in East Berlin before she was born. Hanna could not picture what East Berlin looked like. Her father told her it was a bad place, so maybe it was better if she couldn't.

The radio was not dusty. Her father kept it covered under an oiled cloth that was never removed. It operated by petrol, which they could not get very often. It was always kept full from the five litre can stored under the floor, in case it was ever needed. Now and then, Hanna's father checked the machine, running a cloth over the shiny parts and observing the fuel level. So far, they had never needed it.

Hanna wondered why her father wanted to keep it if they had no use for it. She was not usually allowed to touch it, although her father had taught her how. He showed her the knobs which supplied power, the tuning mechanism, the frequency controls, how to hold the microphone and earpiece and speak into it.

The radio was a source of wonder and Hanna was excited to use it. She thought about her father, far away on the road to the town, with the portable set stashed away in the pack. He would be setting it out on a table or similar surface now, adjusting the frequency, checking the fuel, just as she was. This image made her smile.

With deliberate motions, she turned the radio on. It emitted a high-pitched whine, crackling static floating through the cabin. She felt a thrill go through her. Tonight she would talk to her father on the radio!

There were no clocks in the cabin. Instead, Hanna used a small aluminum wristwatch that had no bands. Her father called it post-war, although she was not exactly sure what that meant. It was inscribed in Cyrillic words on the back that said it was made in Uzbekistan. Hanna supposed this meant it was Soviet. Most of all, it worked, and it was only a few minutes before twenty one hundred hours.

She adjusted the frequency knobs. Her father was out there, doing the same. If Hanna had been the kind of girl who had learned how to giggle, she would have now. Instead, she turned it to the correct frequency with calm deliberation.

The static grew less violent. Crackly snow came through the headset. She checked the watch again. It was time.

"Papa?" When he taught her how to use the radio, her father had instructed her to use Japanese when speaking through it. Their region had minimal Japanese speakers, so they would not be listened to.

"It's Hanna. It's twenty one hundred hours. I turned it on like you said. And I remembered to use Japanese. And I read my lessons, really." She really had, and she hoped her father believed her.

The static poured through her ears. She held down the receiver and spoke again. "Papa. Are you there? It's me and I'm waiting." She lifted the receiver and waited. Nothing. Hanna became alarmed. When her father set a schedule, it must never under any circumstances be broken. His exact orders must be followed with military precision promptly and accurately. To deviate from established orders was to risk exposure, intelligence breakdown, and death. Hanna pressed the receiver again.

"I know you didn't forget, Papa, so why aren't you answering me?"

When Hanna encountered an obstacle, she did not become afraid. She evaluated the situation and determined a course of action that optimized favorable results. She assessed her current position.

Her father was not using his radio. He was either unable to operate it, or unable to reach it. In the first case, he could be in a location outside the radio's range. Underground, or behind a solid obstacle such as a mountain. The radio may have broken during his journey. In the second case, he might be away from his pack. Or it might have been stolen. Hanna did not think her father would have ever allowed this.

He could be injured to the point of incapacitation. Or captured. Or dead.

Hanna was not afraid. She was only gripping the microphone with white knuckles because she was concentrating, that was all.

The journey to the town took three and a half days. He had left thirty four hours ago. He would still be in the forest unless he had acquired impromptu transportation. Even then, averaging forty kilometers an hour, providing he'd found transportation immediately upon reaching the road and used it the entire twenty nine hours minimum, that would make him at least eighty kilometers from the town. There were no habitations between the points. There was the possibility of migrant hunters camping along the way. This happened infrequently, however, and was not likely. He was in the forest. Maybe on the road.

Where was he?

The weather was fair. Twenty degrees Celsius, too warm to risk hypothermia or danger from exposure. It had been dry the past week. Eighty kilometers distant was close enough that she would see storm clouds if further south was receiving rain.

There were no sizable predator populations above 58 degrees north. Wolf populations had been decimated by five decades of government-affirmed predation. Bears avoided the tundra and were little threat during the summer months. Her father knew how to handle wildlife.

So where was he?

Human presence was limited. Occasional foresters and hunters, typically in the autumn months. Infrequently backpackers and sight seers during spring and summer. No military action nearby. No habitations. Unknown hostile parties were possible.

Hanna breathed hard. She wasn't afraid.

But where was he?

"Papa? Papa? You must be in the forest because you can't have traveled more than ninety kilometers in thirty nine hours and there are no bears or flash floods and I made sure you had the Luger and the watch says twenty one hundred fourteen and you promised you'd check with me." She forgot to speak in Japanese and she remembered after a moment to let the receiver down so she could hear a reply. But there wasn't one.

It was not dark outside. Hanna thought about the sun's rays hitting above sixty degrees north for much longer than they should all the way into August and wondered if her father saw the light wherever he was. She stared at the radio with its gentle humming sound fueled by petrol and listened to the empty static over the headset.

Click. Click.

She froze. She turned everything off in her mind and listened to the radio.

Click.

She didn't dare press the receiver to speak, for fear she would miss it.

Static. Then, faintly, a human voice. A murmur, inaudible, shuffling sounds. A metallic clink. Then, a human sound again. A groan. Her father's voice.

"Papa? Papa?" her voice pitched to frenzy as she depressed the receiver in panic.

"...Hanna...I..."

Garbled noise, and she heard with a throb in her chest what was unmistakably a cry of pain. "Papa!"

Hanna stared at the tiny blinking diode of the radio. It blinked red and faint. "Help me...Hanna..."

She screamed, wordlessly, no longer worried she wouldn't hear what was on the other end. She jumped from the table, almost upsetting the radio, and threw off the headset. On the scarred wood of the rough hewn boards, the static continued, pulsing through the headset like endless snow.


	3. Part 3: Test

Part 3 of 3: Test

During the last winter, when the snow piled up too high to leave the cabin, Hanna's father had taught her how to use RDF triangulation. He showed her the little box that found the direction of the radio source, and how to use a map and compass points to determine where the transmission came from. Hanna found it difficult, but she'd gotten it in the end.

The radio direction finder was tucked in her pack, alongside the most accurate map she had of the forest, and a compass. She walked at a brisk pace, occasionally breaking into a trot, westward through the forest. If she walked too slowly, she heard her father's cries replaying in her head.

The first set of directional readings had been taken at the cabin. 160 degrees. She repeated it so she wouldn't forget. Once she was a mile or so distant from the cabin, she would take another reading. But only if the radio was still transmitting. Was it? It had to be, her father needed it to be so she could save him. Then she would use the pair of readings to triangulate the source. 160 degrees, don't forget.

Hanna was out of breath when she stopped to use the RDF. She hoped it was far enough now to give an accurate reading. She spread the folded map on the ground and took out the heavy box, all dials and switches. She tried to remember how her father had said to set them up. 160 degrees.

She tuned it in. There was no frequency responding. But there had to be, her father needed her. She tried it again, stood with it above her head, pointed it in different directions. No, no, no.

Hanna did not know how to pray. The books mentioned these things sometimes, but she had never seen anyone doing it, and had never thought about it much. As she kneeled on a patch of damp earth next to the map, though, she wished with all her might that she would pick up her father's signal again and be able to find him. It was as good as a prayer for a girl who didn't know how.

The RDF gave a bleep. Hanna scrambled up and adjusted the knobs. 230 degrees. Was it the right radio signal? It did not occur to her that it might be someone else's. She plotted it on the map, and with a stubby pencil, drew the lines from 160 degrees to 230 degrees. They crossed in the end point of a triangle, and Hanna knew where her father was.

She moved fast. The miles sped past her and she became tired, but she kept going. She tried to keep on the watch for enemies, but she could not pull her thoughts from the single-minded pursuit of those coordinates on the map. Three miles left, then two. She stopped only to check her bearings on the compass.

It was getting dark. At home, Hanna was not afraid of the dark. She knew the cabin and the lake and woods around it and she had her father there to protect her. Here, she was afraid. She held her pistol and tried to be brave.

It must be close now. She slowed, feeling the tightness in her chest. If the enemy was nearby, she wouldn't be able to fight them if she couldn't catch her breath. Her father needed her to be ready to fight. The pistol in her hand, she moved cautiously, watching for evil things to leap out at her.

She almost missed it. Something caught the corner of her eye and she turned back to look again. There, a flash of something gray and smooth, foreign in the tangle of branches and leaves. Cautiously, her pistol at the ready, she moved towards it. The leaves were still damp here and softened her footsteps. The gray thing was a corner, and she saw the rest of it was some kind of flat, even rock in the shape of a little house. She had never seen one before, but she knew it was a guard shack. Guard shacks meant people. People meant enemies.

Hanna crouched beneath the cover of a pine tree., her breathing hard. There appeared no one about. She scanned the treetops, looking for blinds that might conceal the enemy, but there was nothing. It was very quiet. There were no trails coming from the shack, no roads for vehicles or even footpaths. No way to know if anyone even used it. Next she examined the shack. It was small, about eight feet square. The roof was rusted tin but looked strong. There was one door and no windows. It had no other features.

This was very strange. Papa had never mentioned a guard post out here, so far away from the town. Did he even know about it? What if someone had set it up a long time ago so they could spy on her and her father without them ever knowing? Maybe the spies had captured her father and now hid inside this very shack. Hanna shivered under the pine tree.

She crouched down low as she snuck away from the tree. She moved in a wide circle around the shack, hugging the trees and scrub . She saw nothing that indicated human presence in her perimeter sweep. On the back side of the shack, however, she found a small ventilation grate set into the lower wall. It was so small that in a year or two she would not be able to fit into it, but she thought just maybe she could do it now.

Hanna was a careful girl. She waited outside the shack, occasionally circling around again, for the better part of an hour, in case the enemy showed up. But no one did, so she crawled closer to the shack, as silently as she could. Finally, she made it to the wall with the grate. She paused, examining the smoothness of the building, wondering how they found a rock in such a perfect shape. She held her ear to it and heard nothing.

She removed her pack but kept the pistol. The grate was metal and she could see no method of its fixture to the wall. With her fingernails, she tried to pry it away. It did not budge.

She used a stick as a wedge between the grate and the wall until it snapped in her hands. Sucking in a breath, she tensed and waited to be found. No one came. Rummaging in her pack, she removed a knife and slowly, slowly, slid it under the grate. It made a soft rasping sound as she ran it all along the edges, but she thought the grate felt a little looser now. With renewed conviction, she set to work gently levering open the grate.

It took a long time. Hanna was aching when she realized the grate was almost free. Careful not to rush ahead and make an unnecessary noise, she kept working the knife until the grate, with a gentle grinding sound, freed itself into her hands.

She held her breath. This was it. She checked her gun again and pushed herself into the square of blackness.

Inside, it was dark. Hanna got her head and shoulders in and was working on freeing her lower body when she heard a click. Instantly, her gun was in her hands, her arms swung around and pointing at the source of the sound, finger on the trigger and icy cold.

"You're too late," someone said. From the opposite corner of the room, a gas lamp hissed into life. "I already killed you," said her father.

Hanna saw him from upside down, gun automatically readjusting until he was in its sights. He was not bloody and beaten. He looked clean and sad. He was not wearing his hat and in his hands was a shotgun, held loosely and pointed at her.

"Toss it away," he told her, and she skidded her gun towards his feet. He did not pick it up.

"Now you must come in," he said. Hanna finished scrambling through the vent. By the light of the lamp she saw the room held only a wooden desk with some kind of fancy machinery on it. She recognized a radio transmitter but the rest was foreign to her.

Her father stepped forward. "Kneel, " he said, and he gestured to the center of the floor.

Hanna did. She was ashamed. She had broken the Rules. She had been stupid and reckless. She had made her father sad.

Her father began circling her as she stared at the floor. "What did you promise me, Hanna?"

"I would stay in the forest. No matter what happened." She was glad she did not have to see her father's eyes.

"You have violated the Rules. You disobeyed orders and botched a rescue attempt. Now you and your team are dead. I did not think you would come so quickly," he said softly.

"You lied to me," Hanna whispered.

"Everyone will lie to you! They will tell you whatever they want to manipulate you and make you do what _they_ want you to do! They all want to use you! Will you let them play with your emotions so they can use you, Hanna?"

"I thought you were in danger, Papa." Her voice became tremulous, her downcast eyes watery.

He exploded. "I do not matter! You are the one who is important, you are the one who must remain safe! If I am in danger you must let me die! I told you that, Hanna! I must keep _you_ safe!" The girl's shoulders heaved.

"I didn't want you to die, Papa," she said through sobs. He stopped circling, the shotgun dipping to the ground, his face crestfallen as he watched the girl trying desperately to stifle her sobs. He felt himself shaking and sucked in a breath, reminding himself what he had to do.

After a few moments he set the shotgun down on the desk. He stood in front of his daughter. "Hanna. Stop crying," he said, his voice firm and gentle. Like a good soldier, she did. "You must promise me forever that if I am in danger, you will save yourself instead of me."

Hanna looked up, her face pink from crying, clean trails of tears cutting through the dirt on her cheeks. "I promise forever, Papa," she said with solemnity.

He nodded, held a hand to her and pulled her up. Retrieving the guns, they left the shack. Hanna's father went around the back and replaced the ventilation grate. "It was a decent job," he told the girl, and she smiled.

"Now we will go home," he said, and he swung Hanna onto his back, where she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle. He held the shotgun in one hand and Hanna's pack in the other, and he walked back through the forest, towards the cabin, carrying his daughter.

THE END


End file.
